


Inevitable.

by FrenchCaresse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Asexual Sherlock, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, M/M, Mycroft Has An Eating Disorder, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Obsession, POV Mycroft Holmes, Power Dynamics, Sherlock is in control, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-10 04:43:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11120154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrenchCaresse/pseuds/FrenchCaresse
Summary: "Mycroft adjusted his reading glasses with an inaudible sigh. Sherlock was such an unpredictable variable. One would think that for all trouble Mycroft has gone to, the least Sherlock could do was properly succomb to the effects of the drug."A deep plunge into the intricacies of dark dynamics between the two brothers. Incestuous obsession, a botched plan and a surprising turn of events. A peek into the functionning of Mycroft's mind.





	1. Unpredictable variables.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there!
> 
> Please heed the tags. Not for everyone. 
> 
> I initially tagged this dark!Mycroft.  
> Then dark!Sherlock.  
> In the end, I tagged neither. Contains both Holmes's doing questionable, not-good things but there are too much feels in this to make either of them evil. Gritty desperation and too much insight into damaged psyches. 
> 
> Heavy on the power dynamics.

There is a flush on Sherlock's angular cheekbones.

It is the only change Mycroft can observe, although his results are limited by the need for secrecy. Mycroft only allows himself swift, inconspicuous peeks at his brother during the lulls in his work; Sherlock won't think it strange if he glances up while shifting a file from his left pile (to read) onto his right pile (classified). The sculpted clock on the wall says it's been almost two hours since Sherlock ingested the iced tea his generous brother prepared. He accepted the notion that the sugar-rush would sustain him until he could eat properly without question; it _has_ been a three-day case after all, and if John were here, he would have been much more insistent about nourishing Sherlock. His brother's quick smile had caused an unexpected lump of guilt in Mycroft's middle but it had been too late already. Sherlock had ingested the whole glass in a minute, unaware Mycroft has spiked it with a crushed blue pill.

The plan is in motion.

Mycroft's secret, _desperate_ plan. 

One that seems to be failing at the moment.

Mycroft adjusts his reading glasses with an inaudible sigh. Sherlock is such an unpredictable variable. One would think that for all trouble Mycroft has gone to, the least Sherlock could do was properly succomb to the effects of the drug.

It has taken months to stage this; securing the case (at least a seven) in the remote country-side had been relatively easy.  The need for two people during the actual infiltration part was glaringly obvious from the start. Ensuring John was in York for a conference had been trickier, requiring some delectable string pulling. Mycroft had counted heavily on John's need to ensure Sherlock's well-being and he'd almost begun implementing plan B when a determined John and a sullen Sherlock had knocked on his office door. It is convenient that he actually _was_ needed in the area, although he had grumbled more than necessary about despising leg-work.

The past three days have bordered on torture for Mycroft;  prolonged fore-play for his twisted mind. Waiting, waiting, _waiting_ , so close to his goal his teeth vibrate; it had been almost unbearable. The black-mailer had evaded capture until late in the evening and it is only logical to spend the night before returning to London. Mycroft dismissed the driver immediately after he'd brought the take-out. There must be no-one but him and Sherlock in the rental cottage tonight. It had been almost too easy to drug Sherlock's drink; Mycroft had expected his hands to tremble but his fingers had been rock-steady and his brother had downed the whole glass in smooth swallows. The last stage is in motion; the point of no return has passed. 

The plan appears to be ineffective though.

Damn his brother!

Mycroft picks up a top-secret document on a bungled extortion attempt by Finnish Extremists and scans it summarily. His brain automatically files  the information into the necessary channels and he purposely ignores the zipping trails of connections, consequences and possible motives. He is preoccupied by more pressing matters.

Mycroft doesn't fail. Ever.

Surely Sherlock is feeling it. He is aroused, he has to be.

Mycroft can't have failed. The probability of his brother being physically impotent is less than seventeen percent. Mycroft tamps down the anxiety and examines his brother again.

Sherlock certainly doesn't  _seem_ bothered, bending over his make-shift experiment in his rolled shirt sleeves and muttering on soil density.

And yet... there is that flush on his cheeks. Two pink spots of color. A single physical anomaly; sympathetic involvement probably, giving away the fact that the drug _is_  affecting Sherlock's body.

Mycroft pretends to be absorbed by his documents when Sherlock looks up at him. He mechanically adds a few notations in the margin; blue ink in a crisp hand. The crappy ball-point pen he'd found on the table advertises a nearby tire business and makes scratchy noises on the paper. He fixes his expression into a moue of half-bored interest. Sherlock seems convinced, because in a minute the weight of his stare lifts. Mycroft flexes his fingers at the urge to rub the goose-bumps the scrutiny has raised. Not yet. He is very carefully monitoring his own need, resisting urge to become erect that has plagued him for over a week.

He might almost think that their glasses have somehow been inverted, that _he_  is the one who ingested the sexual aid; except that feeling this way around Sherlock is nothing new for Mycroft.

He has simmered in his own perverted desires for so long he can't think anymore. And that is inexcusable. He needs to get this out of his system, get over it, be _done_ with this obsession.

Mycroft is a patient man; he has always had the extraordinary capacity to set a goal, then wait for the right circumstances to achieve it.

Mycroft works quietly, but his will-power is stretched near breaking. Soon. _Soon_. Like a spider in it's web, he watches. And waits.

His patience is rewarded, but so excrutiatingly slowly that Mycroft thinks he might scream in frustration first.

Sherlock keeps at his experiment another half hour. The flush on his cheekbones slowly spreads. His pale face colors, and tension sets into his jaw. Thirty seven minutes later, Sherlock spews viotriol in an extinct bavarian dialect; complaints on the (sorely lacking) equipment of the cottage, which is set up as a lover's retreat, not a forensic lab. 

His long fingers twist the top buttons of his shirt open (the flush goes down his chest too) and he strides angrily to his room. Mycroft swallows, allows himself to press a hand to his own hot cheek. (No erection, _not yet_. Breathe.) Is Sherlock going to...

But no, within seconds his brothers emerges with his violin and stomps to a spot near the living room window.

Mycroft's control is slipping. His aroused brother (he doesn't know Mycroft is aware of his state, and God,  _that_ thought is intoxicating) throwing all of his passion into the music is impossible to ignore. Sherlock's pale shirt shimmers slightly in the dim yellow lights placed on the tables by the couch. He sways as he plays, allowing Mycroft teasing glimpses of his intense expression and his wiry body.

Mycroft carefully removes his glasses. He can't pretend anymore. He sinkd back into the chair and carefully places his hands on the table before him, far from his crotch. He finally turns to his brother and gorges on visual perfection.

Mycroft can read Sherlock's discomfort easily in his posture (breathe, _control it,_ patience.) There is tension in his lower body that shouldn't be there, even if his younger sibling is superbly ignoring it. Mycroft can see through the bluff; Sherlock's abdomen and thighs are one tight mess, although it doesn't affect how graceful he appears as he played. When he accidentally positions himself in profile, Mycroft can make out the deformed lines at his crotch; Sherlock's swollen cock presses visibly against his zipper.

Mycroft blushes. He is staring, he can't help it.

Sherlock _hurts; he has to,_ being that hard in his thick trousers. It explains the murderous expression on his mobile face, eyebrows drawn down and delicate teeth gritted. It is hard to tell if his long, graceful fingers shake; the music soars in glorious arpegios.

Mycroft swallows. God he wants to touch...

Sherlock ignores him spendidly. The consulting detective might be somewhat tone-deaf in interpersonal relations, but he is not stupid. There is no way he has not noticed Mycroft's interest.

For a long time, Sherlock doesn't acknowledge Mycroft's indescretion. His eyes are unfocused, lost in rythm and counter-harmony; both brothers drift on the soaring sound pulled from the violin.

And yet...

Sherlock is putting on a show for him, Mycroft thinks. Maybe. Probably. His stance widens and he thrusts his hips a tiny bit, small buttocks contracting. Surely he is aware of his aesthetic, how moonbeams caress his hair in silver and make his skin glow?

 _Unless it is not manipulation? It might just be natural response to the arousal crashing through his system,_ a voice in Mycroft's head whispers.

Sherlock's violin playing is most likely an attempt to distract himself from the pressing urge to masturbate.

And damn, Mycroft is  _hard_ now. A split-second drop in his guard and a seductive thought-line; his penis inflates to rest plump and sticky along his left thigh.

Abruptly, in a startling screech that would have fit right in at a cat-fight, the music stops.

Sherlock turns to Mycroft, eyes ablaze and face remote. Adrenaline dumps into Mycroft's blood-stream; the heady thrum of danger causes a chemical rush that makes him light-headed. 

"We." Sherlock begins, and his voice goes straight to Mycroft's dick. "Should talk."

Sherlock gestures wildly between them with his bow, getting it caught in the long drapes. Huffing in irritation, Sherlock returns his precious violin to the bedroom. The brief respite doesn't help Mycroft's nerves.

Fuck.

Mycroft is in trouble. Things are about to go down. Fuck. _Fuck_.

Instinct roars in him; _Stand up! Fight! Get the hell out of this cramped place!_

Mycroft thrills at controlling it, remaining still and quiet even as his breathing speeds up. Some defensive part of him is awakened, automatically calculating the nearest escape routes and cataloguing possible blunt weapons by weight. Mycroft feels  _alive_ with the added alertness.

He keeps his face composed and focuses on precisely packing his work files in the appropriate order in his briefcase. His fingers tremble, minutely, but he does not think it is apparent from across the room.

Mycroft feels Sherlock's return carnally, in the prickles that spread rapid-fire over his skin; he waits as long as he can tolerate before looking up in acknowledgment. 

"We should talk." Sherlock repeats, and Mycroft nods blandly in agreement.

"About this." Sherlock adds. And suddenly he grips the bulge at his crotch; spider fingertips press into the fabric in a hard squeeze, then explore the edges of the solid length beneath.

Mycroft freezes.

His psyche explodes with a sonic boom. The obscene image of _Sherlock_  touching himself sexually, unashamed and on purpose, in front of - _because of-_ his brother causes a massive blast that clears several blocks in Mycroft's carefully structured brain-town.

Sherlock has a mind-palace. Mycroft might prefer not to flaunt his own functionning, but he _has_  built a city to better organize all the information he stowes. He favors the zoomed-out map view, with it's crisp sketches and self-explanatory pictographs. Connections big and small are easy to spot from the aerial distance. It is nice and orderly, every new situation slotting into place as needed; the precise color-coded lines linking them together re-organize themselves autonomously as additional developments are added. Mycroft is the master traffic controller, hovering high and untouchable.

He doesn't particularly enjoy sinking in and walking through the actual town, although it is possible and sometimes inevitable to extract details for further analysis. Mycroft always feels small and uneasy whenever he enters one of the buildings. Unlike the rooms in Sherlock's mind-palace, Mycroft's structures are utilitarian and unfinished. On the outside, they come in a variety of architectural styles suiting the type of information they hold; on the inside they are all identical  boxes with grey walls. Unfinished. The information they store is found either in a metal box or a file cabinet, in the middle of the concrete floor. There is no furniture, no decoration, none of the lavish collection of accessories Sherlock seems to favor.

Except.

Mycroft has a recently revised hypothesis that the shabby interiors are actually a result of unuse. Mycroft doesn't spend time there, so they are bare shells that echo emptily.

There is one notable exception.

ONE warehouse that, try as he might, Mycroft can't ignore.

The footage of Sherlock's sexual experimenting had resisted deletion; it had spurred a whole unauthorized underground complex. The now-familiar maze of low-ceilinged rooms blazes with more details than anywhere else in the brain-town. Entire rooms are dedicated to framed stills, photos snatched from the grainy surveillance video. They form a private gallery with cream-colored walls and rich walnut floors; there is a comfortable bench placed before each print that invites in-depth contemplation and dissection of each of his brother's facial expressions.

There is a large cocoon-like enclosure, dark with padded floors and walls, where Mycroft can lie and seep in the reverberation of each and every one of Sherlock's moans. Mycroft shoves the unwanted memories of his own base reactions everytime he has broken down and abused himself over the sight of his little brother getting fucked into a row of utilitarian lockers. Lord, but he hates the place.

He tried to stay away, as best he could, but the beastly urges eventually wear him down. It is glorious for a short while, when he finally gives in and focuses on his pleasure, drawing the sensations to a vibrato high. But the shame and helplessness and disgust at his own weakness are almost incapacitating after.

Tonight's scenario has always been hazy at best; there are too many unknown variables and his own sexual fantasies irritatingly cloud his judgement.

Mycroft had NOT anticipated the devastation being so wide-spread this early on though. The warehouse that started it all is unaffected, blinking with the red circle attributed to trigger targets. Half a dozen dotted lines sprout from it, but they now end in absolutely nothing. Mycroft blearily surveys the damage. A wide swath of smoke and rubble. Nearly a kilometer of suburbs filled with low-level international intel has just been obliterated. Completely razed, and without his conscious consent too; Mycroft will need to revise safety protocols and install extra emergency trip-switches to prevent a reoccurence in the future.

Mycroft is grimly aware that some part of him has placed Sherlock's reactions tonight at the top of his priorities, and the blast has been triggered to ensure sufficient room for capturing all new development.

Potential. Possibilities.

Mycroft's head spins at the violent re-organization.

 _Time_. Mycroft needs time to adjust to this unpredicted internal dysfunction.

Time also, to strategize on how to deal with the unpredicted _external_ element.

Sherlock agressively, _openly_ , adressing the situation is not part of Mycroft's plan.

His control is slipping through his fingers. So Mycroft does what any politician would have done in such a delicate mess; he stalls. Just a few extra minutes should enable  him to regroup.

"I would really like a drink first, if you don't mind." Crap, Mycroft's voice is already too rough; Sherlock will certainly pick up on this clue to his brother's arousal.

Surprisingly, Sherlock hums in agreement and disappears into the kitchen.

Mycroft had expected a refusal. The motivation behind Sherlock's surprising acquiescence needs to be determined. Mycroft briskly folds the card table, the last minute automatically replaying in his mind. Long thin fingers pressing into straining fabric - _no, don't pause! Fast-forward, no stalling, store it for later, move along_ \- The surprised grunt Sherlock had made, the way his bony knuckles whitened as he released himself.

Another grunt, tinged with familiar annoyance. _Good, zoom in, Mycroft can feel the pieces falling into place._ Sherlock's hand smoothing down his thigh. _Most likely cause; his dick kicking in protest at the cessation of stimulation_. A short twisting of his hips. _Confirmation of the previous deduction_. Sherlock had been taken by surprise by the intensity of the surge of physical desire. Ignoring his transport for so long; Christ, that first touch must have been exquisite. Sherlock's lips pressing tight, his brow furrowing. _Yes_. _Conclusion reached._

His brother needed a moment to recover from the frustration of denying his body the relief he'd inadvertently teased it with. He is just as destabilized as Mycroft.

The realization pulls a groan from Mycroft. It is a brilliant chain of deduction but it is absolute rubbish. He is mired in the gritty details again. He has lost perspective. Confirmation of how turned on Sherlock is enflames Mycroft terribly.

Mycroft was supposed to be finding calm, not increasing his arousal! _Pull back, construct responses to likely questions, build defence.._  Too late!

Sherlock is back, shoving a tumbler of scotch at Mycroft. The older man nods pleasantly. His only option now is to fake an unaffected facade.

Plan be damned; desperate times call for desperate measures. Mycroft will improvize if he needs to.

If only Sherlock wasn't so... unpredictable. 

Mycroft squares his shoulders, ignoring the anxiety gnawing in the pit of his stomach. 

Show-time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any thoughts you'd like to share? I appreciate feed-back of all sorts.  
> There is one really intense chapter left; prepare to go much deeper. 
> 
> Xxx
> 
> FrenchCaresse


	2. Collision course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed my mind. Mycroft's destruction needed to be savored slowly, so I've split it into two chapters.

Sherlock plops onto the sofa, exuding excess energy as he leans forward over lean thighs. He clutches a glass of ice water in his right hand. _Good_. He is being prudent, not wanting to add alcohol to the unknown drug in his system. Mycroft approves. There is hope the outcome might be favorable after all.

"What did you use on me?" Sherlock enquires casually. He takes a sip of his water, leaving drippy little round finger-marks in the condensation on his glass.

"Sildanefil." Mycroft responds matter-of-factly, taking a measured sip of his own. Trying to employ deceit would be useless and even insulting to Sherlock at this point. Best not to aggravate him. Mycroft's voice remains perfectly suave, betraying none of his anxiety.

Impeccable.

Sherlock seems unsurprised; he rolls his eyes in the particular way Mycroft had seen so many times before, condescending and a bit amused and somehow mutinous too.

"How pedestrian." Sherlock drawls. Mycroft says nothing.

Sherlock's hand presses briefly to his sternum and he frowns.

"Effective though." He concedes, rubbing absently over his thigh now.

Mycroft twitches. Any reminder of Sherlock's need adds another crack in his armor.

Sherlock notices, but he doesn't push it.

He stares into his glass, musing "I thought sexual stimulation was required for Viagra to induce erection?"

Mycroft manages the tight smile he normally reserves for dim-witted politicians. He very deliberately takes another slow drink; he finds that actually swallowing the burning liquid is almost impossible due to how tight his throat has become.

When he can speak, he answers truthfully.

"What with how tight your trousers are," he says, "there was a sixty precent probability the friction alone would provide enough stimulation. And then this morning you decided to wear those ridiculous silk boxers..."

Mycroft arches an eyebrow and trails off.

"They were a gag gift from Lestrade..." Sherlock grumbles, with a hint of pinkness around the ears. Embarassement is uncommon for Sherlock; he rarely cares about the opinion of others.

"I didn't really pay attention to what I was throwing in my bag. John is the one who usually packs." Sherlock further justifies.

He is definately feeling self-conscious. How endearing!

Mycroft's heart melts with brotherly fondness. His eyes catch Sherlock's and connection, genuine and pure, ripples between them.

"Anyway." Mycroft continues. "The tactile rubbing of those particular pants increased the percentage of success to well over 72% this morning."

"More than enough to risk it." Sherlock finishes.

Mycroft waits.

It is Sherlock's turn to lead now. Mycroft's penis is half-hard, and he longs to adjust himself.

Sherlock waited too, finishing his water in silence. The room was heavy with stifling tension.

Sherlock fidgets thirty-seven percent more than he does under normal circumstances; every small shift sends an electric shock straight to Mycroft's groin. His fault, it is  _his fault_ ; perverted jubilation claws a hole inside his rib-cage. Sherlock is uncomfortable because he is erect, _terribly hard;_ he must be positively over-sensitive by this point! God, Mycroft wants to see his brother undone.

By the time Sherlock speaks again, Mycroft is almost reduced to an alternate state. He feels drunk on neuro-transmitters, riding waves of lustful pulsion. A million tiny signs give away Sherlock's losing battle with his transport and fuck, it is  _destroying_ Mycroft.

He jumps at the sound of Sherlock's deep voice, sloshing liquor onto his hand.

"The question," Sherlock stops to clear his throat; his elegant timbre grates more than usual and he seems annoyed by that.

"The question" Sherlock begins again, but his voice is still rough. Sherlock pouts, grudgingly accepting that there is nothing he can do to counter that particular side-effect.

"The question is ... why? Why make me take a sexual stimulant?"

Mycroft allows himself an eye-roll of his own. His suit id too tight and he can feel his shirt sticking to his back, damn it.

Sherlock quirks a rather manic smile in response. His eyes glitter black and his knee is bouncing.

"Don't be tedious." He barks. "Obviously, it was to ensure physical arousal."

Sherlock sits up straighter, steepling his fingers together after thunking his glass to the floor.

Sherlock deduces, words stringing together too fast. Mycroft doesn't mind. When they were younger, he used to fly Sherlock down trails of deduction almost wordlessly. Synapses firing in tandem; just a few words or a gesture were enough to propell a young Sherlock farther than most men three times his age.

Mycroft stopped directing him when his brother's astute mind began to grasp various subtleties he didn't want to share. Mycroft moves through a life of carefully constructed normalcy. The risk of Sherlock brilliantly tearing him to shreds was too great; Mycroft distanced himself and pulled away. Eventually, the guilt stopped giving him heartburn.

Sherlock has never forgiven him.

And now, tonight, Mycroft is realizing with a sensation of vertigo that it had all been for nothing.

He'd only postponed the inevitable.

Sherlock is going to poke into Mycroft's soft squishy insides after all.

 _Fuck_.

"Surely you couldn't think I wouldn't notice?" Sherlock finishes his line of thought. The curls along his hair-line are dark with sweat. Gods, Mycroft wants to kiss his brother. He is about to combust. He doesnlt think he can wait for Sherlock to dissect his motives.

"Of course not." Sherlock soldiers on, oblivious to (or maybe not caring about ) Mycroft's ordeal. "Not you. It's too simple, too obvious. You know the probability I would think the urge was spontaneous is under 3 percent. There is another reason, there has to be!"

Mycroft realizes he has completely lost control of the encounter. This _never_ happens. There is nothing he can do right now, except wait. Unless he just starts jerking off and wouldn't that shut his brother up?

But he won't and they both know it. Mycroft has already played his hand. He has brought whatever consequences occur onto himself. It creates a numb kind of serenity; suddenly every detail is over-exposed and sharp-edged with anticipation. Mycroft is stripped bare.

Sherlock is still deducing.

"What I really want to know is why you thought you needed to resort to drugging me?"

The wind is picking up outside, wooshing over the roof.

"To ensure appropriate openness to sexual advances obviously." Sherlock answers himself. "But why take such a risk just to have sex with me? _Why_? It doesn't make sense..."

Sherlock's fingers twist into his hair, jerking roughly.

Mycroft deposits his mostly full glass on a side table. His hands quiver and his throat is filled with sand-paper. It is better to put the Scotch aside before he spills it on his tailored trousers.

Sherlock stares at him, curls standing every which way from the recent abuse. Mycroft aches.

Sherlock leans back against the cushions to think, gnawing on his bottom lip. A strangled noise gets caught in Mycroft's nose when Sherlock's long legs part, practically show-casing the giant bulge at his crotch. Mycroft digs his finger-nails into the arms of his chair; his dick gives a mighty lurch that he ignores with effort.

Sherlock's eyes drill into him suddenly, seeing too much. Shit.

"You want this. You really really want this!" Sherlock whispers, his voice soft with wonder. The words coil seductively around Mycroft's spine.

"You're _gagging_ for it!" Sherlock accuses hotly. Mycroft tries to remain stoically blank, but he flinches before he can stop himself. The truth hurts, especially given how judgemental Sherlock sounds when voicing it.

"How long? How long have you wanted to fuck me?"

Mycroft opens his mouth, then snaps it shut. He shakes his head instead, _no_. It is not a denial. It is a refusal to add degrading details.

Sherlock correctly interprets the motion. He sits straighter, speaking to himself in a lilting monologue.

"It must have been a long time. Wearing you down until you did something reckless like this... so out of character... I've never seen you break before."

Mycroft looks away, staring at a frayed bit of the floral rug. There is nothing to say. No defense, no clear course of action. It is dark in his brain-town; the electricty is out. Unprecedented. Mycroft can't concentrate enough to reboot; he waits for Sherlock to finish deducing him instead.

Sherlock is lost in thought. He scratches lightly at the exposed skin in the open neck of his shirt, eyes heavy-lidded.

Mycroft pants through his mouth, transfixed. He can't help it.

Sherlock.

 _Aroused_.

Mycroft can see how far from his comfort-zone his brother actually is.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" He can't help asking when Sherlock's hand hoveres in the vicinity of his groin, presumably without Sherlock actually meaning it to.

Sherlock freezes, then carefully places his hand on his leg. Something small and unsure flashes in his inscrutable eyes.

"I know how to help." Mycroft chokes out, feeling wetness leak from his trapped dick-head. This is straight from his fantasy; voicing it out loud is nearly too much. His heart races, thunderous pounding behind his ear-drums. _Easy now, careful._ If Mycroft plays this correctly, he might still get the outcome he craves.

Sherlock compulsively runs shaky fingers through his hair.

"Is this how it is for you, then?" He asks.

Mycroft makes some sort of non-commital squawk in response.

"You know I don't feel like this." Sherlock accuses. His eyes are still lucid; they pin Mycroft to his chair, forcing him to answer.

"You consider yourself asexual." Mycroft recites. The words come out strangely toneless, probably because he has repeated them to himself so often. _Sherlock is asexual. Not interested._ It is too bad his dick wouldn't get the message.

Sherlock's nostrils flare. His voice is decidedly mild when he rebuffs Mycroft.

"You know then. Of course, you know. And you still tried to force me to participate in, to _enjoy_ sex. By chemically taking away my consent."

Mycroft squirms.

"That's... a lot _not good_ , as John would say." Sherlock chastises. Mycroft stared at the rug some more.

"Myc." Sherlock says. Mycroft doesn't, _can't_ , look up. His actions are despicable and he knows it. Sometimes, he is so focused on obtaining his goal that things like ethicality and _right or wrong_ blur into the periphery.

"Myc." Sherlock's expression is open when Mycroft finally met his gaze.

"Clearly you don't understand. It's not like, like I'm dead down there." He gestures towards his genitals.

"I don't... I get erections, sometimes." Mycroft grunts in disbelief but Sherlock continues.

"I _do_ , Mycroft. I have a healthy male body, of course I experience biological engorgement."

Sherlock suddenly pinches his nipple through his shirt, arching with a throaty groan. Mycroft's lungs forget how to work and he chokes mid-inhale.

"I know it can feel good, physically." Sherlock shouldn't be able to be so rational when Mycroft is melting. He goes on as though he hadn't just pulled a move straight from a porno.

"I never... experience any real urge to pursue sex. My body's reaction are... distinct from my thought-processes, muted. Just transport."

Sherlock's face is animated and his eyes are clear and luminous as he tries to explain.

"I ... the actual physical act is... repulsive to me. Overload of stimulation. Too many bodily fluids and sweat; if you add a partner there are smells and logistics and _feelings_. I can't... " Sherlock's nose scrunches up in disgust.

"I prefer to wait for the impulse to pass and focus on The Work."

Mycroft is quiet. He can feel his pulse pounding in his neck. He is insanely jealous, wishing he were more like Sherlock.

"I tried, you know." Sherlock perks up, suddenly earnest."I experimented with as many types of sexual acts as I could, but none of it..."

Mycroft freezes. The words are like a kick to the balls.

Mycroft's cameras had captured bits of it. The busty red-head slinging her elbow over Sherlock's neck. Sherlock with his head knocked back, coat unfortunately hiding the bobbing head in front of him. Frantic kisses in a doorway. Sherlock's back marked by what was clearly whip burn. That one time Mycroft had rescued Sherlock from a drug den, naked and covered in semen.

But the one that haunts Mycroft was Sherlock's time with a man. Mycroft does not know if it was his brother's first time, or one of a string of many. It stands out because it had occured in a filthy alley, so the surveillance cameras had captured it all. Mycroft can summon the whole recording with perfect recall.

The way Sherlock had cocked his hip just right, leaning against the wall. Perfectly playing seduction; just the right blend of provocative and arrogant. No wonder the perp had eagerly paid good money.

Sherlock's pale naked body. How his back muscles contracted under the force of the thug fucking him. That pert ass; Mycroft burns with anger to see it breached with such indifference. He thinks Sherlock had stretched himself before; at least, Mycroft hoped had. The man he'd chosen had no finesse whatsoever and even less care for his partner.

There is a softness in the hang of Sherlock's neck. _Drugged then_ ; he'd taken something before playing the rent boy. His eyes are blank, even if the quality of the footage is poor. They might be rimmed with black eyeliner, unless that is just a play of shadows through the monitor.

Such a waste. As his too-thin body was battered, Mycroft can tell Sherlock was not truly lost in the encounter. He was analyzing, cataloguing. Even the fake orgasm at the end is perfect. Sherlock pushes against the brick wall, curling with a believable series of full-bodied shudders. Sherlock is an amazing chameleon, expertly mimicking human reactions. Mycroft doubts his brother was even been hard through-out the whole thing.

Such a waste.

Unacceptable.

Mycroft could have done so much better than that disgusting stranger!

The notion had taken root, expanded. The possibilities and potential invaded Mycroft like a parasitic vine. Tendrils worked between the blocks of his walls, inexorable pressure. Sherlock was _HIS._

He'd fought it, resisted with all his might.

Until he just couldn't anymore and his frustration transformed into determination. There is ... balance... that needed to be achieved. Vulnerable spots that must be protected.

Mycroft had crafted the perfect, desperate, plan.

Sherlock and Mycroft had always been like celestial bodies, orbiting each other. Sometimes burning perilously close; other times swinging far into cold empty depths. Always circling back.

Love.

Hate.

Attraction.

Tonight, they crash together.

Mycroft has set them on this trajectory, hurtling towards each other.

He dimly hopes they survive the collision.

 


	3. Fractured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for all the predictable tropes; rough sex and and incest and submission, size kink if you squint. 
> 
> Serious warning for brief but triggering description of eating disorder thought patterns.
> 
> Let's get to it, shall we?

Mycroft realizes he has completely checked out when his ears start ringing with the total silence. The complete absence of sound is incongruous enough that it has worked it's way through the memories and caught his attention.

Sherlock watches him with his eyes narrowed.

"Oh." Sherlock's quiet voice rings with understanding.

"That's how it is, then. You... saw me, somehow." He closes his eyes, opening them in a slow-motion blink.

Sherlock rises fluidly. The way he walks over to Mycroft is  _predatory_ , rolling with sensuality and menace.

He towers over his seated brother. Mycroft's mouth is dry and he frantically tries to anticipate his brother's next move.

Sherlock steps forward, one leg at a time carefully sliding over the armrests of Mycroft's chair. And then...

The warm pressure of Sherlock's bum as he sits on Mycroft's knees. He is too tall, unbalanced and pitching backwards; Mycroft instinctively stabilizes his brother with a hand on his lower back. God, he can _feel_ the heat pouring from Sherlock through his thin shirt.

Time sputters and stalls.

Sherlock really _is_  tall; Mycroft arches his head back to try and see his brother's face. It is useless; he is eye-level with the elegant column of Sherlock's neck and the sharp underside of his sibling's jaw. Sherlock smells amazing, warm and spicy with remnants of some fancy soap or expensive aftershave. Mycroft's mouth waters.

Sherlock is surprisingly light, despite how long his limbs are. Mycroft can't decide if the fact that his brother's behind is not _really_ making contact with his pounding erection is a blessing or a curse. He strokes slowly down Sherlock's back, vertebrae bumping into his palm. If he holds perfectly still, Mycroft can feel the tiny undulations of Sherlock's pelvis he might otherwise have missed.

Sherlock shifts forward, sitting straighter and grabbing onto the chair on either side of Mycroft's head.

Mycroft focuses the entirety of his considerable will-power on remaining still.

"There's more though, isn't there?" Sherlock purrs.

Sherlock's index finger derisively traces down Mycroft's nose. When it came to rest on his bottom lip, Mycroft tries to ignore it. He refuses to be _that_ predictable.

Mycroft lasts all of five seconds before the breath leaks from him in a weak moan and his mouth parts. He won't, he _won't_.

Sherlock, the bastard, does absolutely nothing. He just leaves his finger there, pressing a slight indent into Mycroft's lip. Mycroft closes his eyes, resisting temptation. He won't, he _won't_.

Gods, Mycroft is dying to reach out and worship Sherlock's finger with his tongue. He longs to know how Sherlock's skin tastes; wants to discover the whorls of his fingerprints and the sharp edge of his nail, maybe even suck on the tip a bit. _Anything_ , really, to appease the torment. Maybe, if he is very very quick and subtle, Sherlock won't notice...

Mycroft's tongue flicks at Sherlock's finger.

Inevitable.

Barely there, hardly a touch; not enough to taste, certainly. Immediately, Sherlock's finger is gone. _Fuck_.

Sherlock's hands are suddenly clutching Mycroft's skull and there is surprising strength in those bony musician knuckles.

Sherlock's face is cold and tense as he forces his brother to maintain uncomfortable eye contact.

"You _hate_ this." He enunciates carefully.

Mycroft is powerless to look away.

"Yesss." He hisses defiantly.

Mycroft's ribs expand, but all the air is somehow being constricted out of him.

Sherlock's too bright eyes taunt Mycroft, giving him but a second to register their purposeful glint before...

Sherlock rolls his hips deliberately downward, bringing their clothed erections into contact. Finally.

The relief is  _mind-numbing._

The feeling skitters just this side of too-rough because of the constriction of Mycroft's trousers, but it sparks over his nerve-endings gloriously anyway. Sherlock's body is reacting much same, if his stuttery groan is to be believed.

Mycroft twists helplessly in his chair when Sherlock wrenches away; he digs the square heels of his polished shoes into the floor and straightens his back with the herculean effort of not chasing after the friction. Mycroft is not an animal; he won't, he can't... Christ, he _has_ _to_... With a jagged exhale, Mycroft loses control and pushes his hips back up.

The move catches Sherlock off-guard; he over-balances and falls forward. Their torsos smash together, making Mycroft's teeth clack with the knock. 

Sherlock recovers himself, shifting so their groins are firmly lined up and Mycroft bears most of his weight.

Perfection.

A pause, and Sherlock begins to move, albeit somewhat awkwardly at first. He soon finds a rythm of enthusiastic humping. Mycroft over-heats.

Filthy moans fill the room where the memory of violin echoes lingers.

Mycroft doesn't analyze the soundtrack to differentiate between Sherlock's vocalizations and his own. He can only focus on the white-hot desire they share. Triumph bubbles up inside him.

Yes.

This is what he'd wanted; what he'd dreamed of.

His brother is  _reveling_ in purely physical pleasures.

His plan worked after all!

Mycroft sets two mind-channels on auto-pilot, recording every gasp and shudder of Sherlock's to savor later. He adds an extra two to capture tactile sensations and a nearly useless one for recording sight. Sherlock is beautiful beyond belief, but Mycroft's eyes keep screwing shut, impeding the footage.

Then, Mycroft completely gives up on interpreting any of it. He is short-circuiting and he doesn't give a crap. It is very freeing. He lets the data bypass filtering, sending it straight into storage for now.

Mycroft feels trapped in his body; he is dying a slow death by fire. He is absolutely overwhelmed by the sensation of Sherlock grinding against him; it is too much and  _not enough_. Mycroft fills his palms with the planes of Sherlock's illiac crests and helplessly presses up with his groin. It _almost_ soothes the ache; it also ferociously escalates the urge to release.

Mycroft needs real contact on his penis, he might pass out soon if Sherlock doesn't...

Mycroft does not attempt to masturbate himself properly.

He is drowning in luxurious agony but he can't, _won't_ , push for more than this unsatisfactory teenage humping. If this is what Sherlock feels comfortable doing...

Mycroft's conscience is still bothered that he selfishly betrayed _Sherlock._ Mycroft manipulates people daily and with no remorse at all. But his brother is not to be flocked into the mob of general boring humans. Mycroft respects Sherlock. Mycroft _loves_ Sherlock, more than he can ever let his brother know. 

That he stooped this low whithout properly thinking is.. troubling.

Mycroft will not to initiate anything else his brother doesn't want. It's the least he can do, even if it fucking _kills_ him.

Sherlock suddenly growls and manipulates his own fly; he yanks on the button and unzips in impatient jerks.

Sherlock fishes into the slinky nest of his silk boxers; his quiet sigh when he frees his erection crackles down Mycroft's spine and pools heavily somewhere between his legs. Mycroft cranes his neck; yes! He will  _finally_ see his brother's penis. Sherlock kisses him instead, diverting Mycroft's attention.

The kiss is lovely.Their lips toy with each other at first; dry pecks that gradually turn lingering. Supple mouths part and come together more and more slowly, more and more wetly; the tension crests unbearably and Sherlock finally deepens the kiss.

Sherlock kisses extremely well, Mycroft acknowledges fuzzily. Not that the fact particularly surprises him. Sherlock is irritatingly good at whatever he sets his mind to, and this is something he has practiced. Sherlock's tongue is slippery and dominant, sliding seductively along Mycroft's teeth.

Sherlock angles his head just right and opens wider, sealing their mouths together. Mycroft whimpers at the feeling of Sherlock's tongue spearing thick and meaty deep into his mouth.

_Too much_ , it is too much like fucking. Mycroft shouldn't be opening up so submissively but he can't help it; the kiss is just too good, _too right._ Mycroftcan't _think,_ he can'tevenbreathe; he can only cling to his brother and whine.  Mycroft's trapped dick hurts so, so badly; his need ratchets up ten-fold when he realizes Sherlock's elbow is  _moving_.

Sherlock is masturbating, fast and effective and inches away from Mycroft's belly and _damn_ , Mycroft needs to _see!_   

Sherlock's stupid shirt is in the way.

Mycroft flusters, trying to tug the hem free of it's tuck in Sherlock's unzipped pants.

Argh, what did Sherlock _do_? His shirt tail is all the way down under his butt cheeks! Mycroft grunts at the unexpected, yet still familiar, stab of pain that jabs deep inside him when he realizes that his own shirts don't tuck nearly as well because they have to spread over his gut.

_Mycroft is too big, too soft; disgusting. No-one will ever want a fat slob like him..._

Oh god. No, please no. Not now.

_If he lost a few pounds maybe Sherlock would want him without being drugged. What if Sherlock sees him naked? Mycroft's cellullite and jiggly ass will certainly result in derision and mockery. Mycroft can't bear the thought of Sherlock pitying him._ He freezes, muscles locking in readiness to push Sherlock off of him.

The intrusive line of thought grows stronger. Mycroft wonders how much he weighs? _He purposely doesn't keep a scale and suddenly that fact is insufferable. What was he thinking? If he could just see the numbers, he would have a better idea how many calories he needs to restrict to get rid of the flab around his middle._

NO! Mycroft drags in a rasping breath.

No. He won't let his self-hatred ruin this night. 

Mycroft spends a few frantic heartbeats trying to diffuse the spiral before it gains momentum. With effort, he forces his concentration back to Sherlock.

He will NOT have a melt-down. He gains shaky control, pouring his energy into frantic kisses.

Sherlock does not know.

Sherlock _must not_ know.

Sherlock, who is writhing in Mycroft's lap with his shirt still half done up....

Mycroft breathes a little easier, licking down Sherlock's neck. He focuses on unbuttoning Sherlock until his own issues are tightly locked away again. His hands shake and he is glad to be sitting.

_God_ , that had been a close call.

Mycroft hasn't been triggered so strongly in years; in hind-sight it was rather predictable, given the situation. Nakedness and base pulsions and emotional vulnerability mix with body-image issues into a dangerously volatile combination for Mycroft.

His brother does not realize the crisis Mycroft has just averted. He pants, purring agreeably when Mycroft's warm hands finally slide against his bare chest. Sherlock's skin is a bit clammy, and his abdomen contracts responsively under Mycroft's caresses.

Mycroft is sweating in his heavy suit, but it is perfect, absolutely _perfect_ anyway. He is back to enjoying the moment, back in control of himself. He bends his neck, attacking Sherlock's flat nipple with agressive tongue swipes.

Sherlock looks absolutely debauched, _wrecked_ , as he runs his fingers through Mycroft's short hair. Sherlock's eyes are wide and black; his mouth is shiny plump and his clothing hangs half undone.

Brilliant.

Exactly how Mycroft had imagined.

Mycroft jubilates. His balls throb but he finds he can ignore his own need easily now. Mycroft is on a mission to make Sherlock feel good.

He wraps his hand around Sherlock's erection, twining his fingers with his brother's. Mycroft nibbles down Sherlock's neck, feeling him shudder delicately. God yes.

Absolutely as planned,

Sherlock's hand suddenly locks under Mycroft's chin; yanking his head up and holding him with surprising strength at an angle that extends his neck uncomfortably.

Mycroft freezes, alarms resonating in the deserted shell of his brain-town.

Sherlock's eyes are so pale and clear they are unnerving. His mouth twists, baring his straigt teeth; saliva glints on his molars.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

"Myc." Sherlock begins.

"Brother mine." His voice is hard, almost a sneer.

" _That's_ the reason why." He declares. Mycroft doesn't follow; his mind has floundered off-line again, still trying to process the halt in an encounter that had been progressing most satisfactorily.

"I know, Mycroft."

Sherlock's radiates absolute confidence in his conclusion.

Mycroft's world implodes; a crater opens up in the ground beneath his brain-town.

Mycroft falls; down,  _down,_ down. His mind sinks into a red cavern he didn't know existed, somewhere underneath his carefully constructed intellect. It is a place of orange lights and burning smog.

Mycroft's fall stops with a nauseating lurch. He is as naked as a foetus; his consciousness remains tethered to reality only by the twisting cables he'd set up to capture the evening with Sherlock.

A brief struggle proves futile, rapidly exhausting him as he dangles. Mycroft gives up, allowing the last whispy strains of his dignity to dissipate in the shadowy smoke and sheer rock cliffs.

Sherlock watches his brother.

The sudden cracks fracturing behind his eyes are unexpected. Sherlock frowns.

Primal intensity, pure panic, and then... surrender. Mycroft sags in Sherlock's arms.

Pliant. Calm.

Sherlock watches his brother's pupils dilate and his face grow slack.

He gently caresses his brother's cheekbone with a thumb.

"I know why you drugged me." Sherlock presses a dry kiss to Mycroft's forehead. His brother only blinks owlishly.

"You wanted us on even footing. Needed to even out the playing field, so to speak. This isn't about sex."

Mycroft's face scrunches, and Sherlock just _knows_ his brother would normally insist he precisely express what he means. Not now though. A hard pinch to Mycroft's shoulder and his brother's resistance melts on a tremulous sigh.

Sherlock grins. It is a cold, evil thing.

Mycroft should be frightened, except there is no room for fear in him now. No room for anything really, except _Sherlock_.

His brother's presence dominates every neuron in Mycroft's head. The singular focus is peaceful. No room for worries. No world conflict to resolve. No _thinking_.

Simple.

Just _Sherlock_.

"You drugged me, because of how you wanted me to react during sex." Sherlock whispers.

"This is about _power_."

He bends down for a bruising, passionate kiss and Mycroft groans, helplessly responding.

"It's always about power with you, isn't it Mycroft?"

Sherlock waits. Eventually, Mycroft nods groggily.

"If you had just wanted fornication, societal conventions would hardly have stopped you, would they?" Sherlock guesses.

"Incest." Sherlock draws the word out, savoring the way it rolls in his mouth and observing Mycroft. There is no reaction, not even a blink, at the deliberate mention of the taboo, confirming Sherlock's suspicion.

"You want this." Sherlock continues. "Wanted this, wanted _me_ , so badly!"

He palms Mycroft's dick; his brother's ardor has not diminished in the least despite his altered state.

"I don't want you, usually. Don't care for this. You fucking  _hate_ yourself for craving it when I'm unaffected." Sherlock swearing makes Mycroft moan. 

"You wanted to drive me mad with lust too. When you couldn't stand it any more, when you HAD to have me; you drugged me so I was just as affected as you..."

Mycroft nods.

He is broken. Cracked open.

How could he have thought he'd succefully hide anything from Sherlock?

"You needed to give yourself power over me." Sherlock's words are grave.

"That's why you added drugs; to give yourself an advantage in the game."

Mycroft blinks at him.

"Guess what?" Sherlock leans forward to whisper; his breath is hot on Mycroft's neck.

"You lose."

Mycroft understands the words. He can't make sense of the consequences though.

He simply doesn't care. He floats in that strange vast chasm that is all _Sherlock_ inside himself.

Time is an abstract, useless construct; reality itself does not feel as pressing now that Mycroft's weakness has been revealed.

There is only the present moment. _Now_.

And Sherlock.

He waits.

Sherlock kisses Mycroft. It is a light, joyous kiss; almost tender.

Fear tries to spike through Mycroft again. It can't reach him in the flickering warmth.

Sherlock's voice is gentle, almost sing-song as he promises "I won't play by your rules, brother mine!"

Then he is leaning over, floundering on the floor by the chair and Mycroft can't understand his movements but he isn't complaining because it shifts them together in a whole _new_ way.

"Condom." Sherlock orders haughtily. Mycroft needs a minute to process the demand. When understands, he tries to talk so fast he stutters.

"Buh, Briefcase." Mycroft says urgently.

"No. No. Inside, in the black folder."

Sherlock's eyes flick to him and Mycroft flounders, explaining.

"The front pocket is too obvious. Too easy to find by accident and too... ready. Success was not assured, no use for unecessary risks."

Sherlock beams approvingly, deftly extracting the string of three wrapped packets.

He quickly shucks his pants. Sherlock stands, wide-legged to straddle the arm-chair. His intention is clear from the way his erection bobs eagerly in front of Mycroft's face. The condom is superfluous though, and Mycroft takes a deep breath to argue the point.

Sherlock's fingers dive into his mouth, pressing hard on his tongue. Mycroft goes silent while his brain absorbs the novel sensation. He could bite, if he wanted to...

Sherlock's fingers taste like scotch; did his brother sneak a taste straight from the bottle while he was in the kitchen? Maybe an innocent drop had run down the neck when he'd poured for Mycroft.

Mycroft forgets to argue about the condom until Sherlock is rolling it on, and by then he's filled with static noise again.

Sherlock's long fingers move deftly, manipulating his shaft and the latex efficiently. Gods, he looks huge; Mycroft can't breathe at the sight. This is really happening.

Sherlock's penis is engorged an angry red from hours of arousal. It fills the latex sheathe to bursting. In fact, the condom does not manage to extend all the way to the base. The image vaguely reminds Mycroft of a sausage stuffed into a too-small casing, or his grand-ma's legs in nylons. It should be ridiculous, he knows this, but his perception is biased. Sherlock preparing to fuck his mouth is insanely HOT.

_Fuck_.

Mycroft must have said that out loud, bacause Sherlock smiles. He sounds a bit sheepish when he explains "I... I can't. I'm sorry. Your saliva, and all that oral bacteria..." Sherlock trails off and Mycroft remembers.

_Asexual_. Non-consensual. _Wrong_.

His fault. Sherlock is already giving him more than he deserves.

Sherlock closes his eyes, gathering himself. When he speaks, his voice is as hard as his dick.

"Suck me." Sherlock commands roughly.

He grabs the base of his erection. The smooth head of Sherlock's cock pushes against Mycroft's lips; before he can really register what they are about to do, he opens up and lets his brother's dick breach him.

They both moan.

Sherlock holds still for a while, letting the head rest heavy on Mycroft's tongue. His cock jumps from time to time, and it tastes of plastic. Mycroft would give _anything_ to taste Sherlock's bare skin. Mycroft whimpers, hollowing his cheeks and curling his tongue to apply proper suction.

Sherlock stops him by grabbing his head with both hands.

"Nuh uh. No." Sherlock knows what he wants, even if he is too breathless.

Mycroft dissolves, slipping further into thoughtless obedience. 

_Sherlock_. This is for Sherlock, Mycroft will do whatever Sherlock wants.

He keeps his mouth open and relaxed.

"Good." Sherlock's praise tingles over Mycroft's skin like the drops that drench when you pass too close to a waterfall.

"You don't get to decide." Sherlock says

"This is your fault." He pulls out and strokes himself roughly.

It is _wrong_ ; Mycroft is ready, he can be good, he won't disappoint Sherlock! Mycroft watches how the condom wrinkles then smoothes out under Sherlock's hand; he feels useless and close to tears. 

"Now." Sherlock growls. "You will do what I say."

And the statement is childish and cliché and triumphant and it makes Mycroft moan like a whore.

Mycroft slumps a bit lower and opens his mouth as wide as he can. He closes his eyes and waits. 

"Good." Sherlock's voice is strained.

Then he fucks his brother's mouth with smooth glides.

Perfect.

Inevitable.

Mycroft concentrates on keeping his cheeks slack and his teeth out of the way. It is hard to let himself be passively used. He wants to employ tongue and suction; wants to bob his head and make it _good_ for Sherlock, but he mustn't.

Sherlock does not want that.

Sherlock does not want _him_. He just needs a hole to release into after being drugged.

Sherlock holds Mycroft's head tightly, fucking firmly.

He is not gentle, but Mycroft can take it. He _can_. He will. For Sherlock.

"So good!" Sherlock croons. "That's right, just let it happen; I've got you." 

Mycroft obeys. He floats.

"Focus on breathing now." Sherlock warns and his hips speed up.

Mycroft tentatively raises his hands to hang onto Sherlock's pelvis. Sherlock allows it.

His thighs and butt contract in a deathly fluid motion as his strokes deepen. Mycroft never knew, never guessed, that Sherlock was capable of unleashing such perfect power. He feels Sherlock's naked ass-cheeks flexing; strong muscle fibers pump beneath his fingers.

It is a small insignificant detail, hidden in the shadow of _Sherlock's penis in Mycroft's mouth._  

Mycroft nearly panics. Sherlock is _thick_ , blocking Mycroft's airway randomly. Mycroft keeps forgetting he has to breathe through his nose. Sherlock shows no sign of fatigue, fucking Mycroft's face vigourously. There is too much saliva; it is dripping down Mycroft's chin in a most undignified way.

When Sherlock goes _really_ deep, so that his pubes nearly touch Mycroft's nose, he can catch a whiff of Sherlock's very own intimate scent. The angle is wrong though. _Deep, too deep_. Mycroft's eyes water and he fights a rush of adrenaline as Sherlock's dick repeatedly strikes the soft tissue at the back of his mouth.

Mycroft makes a whimpering sound of protest, trying to angle his head to allow deep-throating but Sherlock's fingers tighten in warning. Mycroft gives up and tries to take it instead. His eyes stream constantly now and his fingers must be leaving marks on Sherlock's butt as the abuse of his throat continues.

Surely Sherlock notices. He has to!

Breath whistles through Mycroft's nostrils; Sherlock continues battering too deep.

Mycroft gags, torso convulsing with muted chokes.

He doesn't really care though. If Sherlock's wants to damage his pharynx, Mycroft will take it without protest. He gags again, getting drool burning up his nose.

Sherlock pulls out. It takes a few minutes for Mycroft to get the raspy squeal out of his gasping inhales.

Sherlock's thumb wipes the wetness from Mycroft's eyes. He forces his brother's head back while bending forward so they are locked in searing eye contact.

Mycroft waits in a blissful fog, seared by the flames of Sherlock's scrutiny.

"Severely under-responsive gag reflex." Sherlock states gently. 

"I thought you were done with sticking your fingers down your throat?" He asks.

Fuck. 

Mycroft would fall apart, but it is impossible. He is already blasted into a million shiny shards.

Sherlock doesn't know... he can't. He never has... Mycroft was so determinedly careful, especially as Sherlock turned into a teenager. He has protected his brother from the rot that plagues him. Sherlock is better, he is _pure_. Sherlock can't know...

And yet, he has just casually called Mycroft out for his darkest, best-kept secret. The matter-of-fact statement implies this is not a newfound revelation.

Oh God. Mycroft can't... he thinks he might be sick.

He unthinkingly pressed a hand to his too-soft middle.

"I don't." He finds himself saying. His voice is scratchy and hoarse from the abuse Sherlock's cock has subjected his larynx to. At the flash of sharp fire in Sherlock's look, he concedes. "Not anymore."

And it is true. He will never have the physique he craves, the one that will make him feel good about himself. The one that Sherlock hatefully flaunts.

 But Mycroft is older now. He likes to pretend that the unimaginable power he holds makes him feel worthy. But it doesn't.

Mycroft knows he has an eating disorder. He can control it to some extent. Control how he acts anyway, even if he sometimes can't stop the barrage of what he knows are false truths. They still _feel_  true. There are certain foods he avoids completely, the sugar-filled ones with a cloying spongy texture like cupcakes. He can never stop at one, and after a binge, the need to purge is unsurmountable.  

Mycroft has come to a grudging truce with his body. There is no-one to judge him, because no-one ever sees him naked. He never looks at himself in the mirror nude anymore. He can live with himself that way.

He doesn't take lovers though, none at all; the risk is not worth it. It is probably why the whole mess with Sherlock happened. Trying to stifle his sexual impulses has only created chaos.

"How long?" Sherlock asks.

Mycroft almost doesn't answer. Sherlock sees his brother's eyes shutter even in his fractured state. Something sinks in Sherlock's stomach, some inkling of premonition. The truth is going to hurt, if Mycroft is _still_ trying to hide it.

"How long, Myc!" Sherlock pushes. He gives his brother's shoulders a shake, because this is important, damn it. He won't let Mycroft hide from him anymore.

"Five years, three days and twelve hours, more or less." Mycroft blurts wearily.

But that's...

Sherlock blinks. That's how long he's been sober.

Fuck.

Mycroft grins at him, but he looks unamused and exhausted. "To each his own addiction, right 'lock?"

Sherlock will need to think on this. For now though...

"Very well." Sherlock says. His expression grows so intense it is blinding; Sherlock's love wraps around his older brother like a blanket and it causes surprise tears to sting in Mycroft's vision.

"Thank you for sharing." Mycroft squirms.

Sherlock finishes. "You're beautiful, Mycroft."

And it's too much, too raw, Mycroft can't...

Sherlock straightens with a suspicious sniffle.

"I'm going to cum now." Sherlock warns.

His cock is not really hard anymore, the condom half-hanging off. Sherlock's organ bends a bit when it's pushed back into Mycroft's mouth and there is no doubt that Mycroft can swallow more of it. It fills rapidly though, blood permeating the chemically vasodilated capillaries. Soon, the distinct feeling of the ridge at Sherlock's cock-head rubbing on the roof of his mouth makes Mycroft's toes curl.

Sherlock unravels fast. His strokes are choppy and he grunts. Mycroft uses more suction, purposely wrapping his lips tight around the hard shaft. When Mycroft uses his tongue to milk it, Sherlock shouts and sags forward. Mycroft's decides this is permission to be more involved and adds a hand squeezing the base of Sherlock's cock. Sherlock loses it; the blow-job is messy and uncoordinated and _genius_ _._

Sherlock stops breathing and his stomache quivers. The condom floods with milky liquid. Mycroft really, really,  _really_ wants to taste.

Sherlock quivers for a long time afterward, leaning heavily on the back of the chair over Mycroft's head. His slim abdomen heaves too close to Mycroft's face in gradually slowing breaths.

When Sherlock finally pulls back, a much less astute man than Mycroft would have noticed how weak his knees are as he stumbles to the couch. He lazily disposes of the condom and flops into one of the acrobatic poses he manages to make appear effortless. His unbuttoned shirt has fallen off one bony shoulder; it pools in Sherlock's lap and hides his penis. Too bad.

The brothers stare at each other quietly. A clock is ticking, regular beats somewhere nearby. Normally, Sherlock would get aggravated by it; in his post-coital haze, he doesn't seem to notice.

Finally, Sherlock seems to recover his wits. 

He rises onto an elbow.

"Did you?" He enquires, gesturing crudely towards Mycroft's crotch.

Mycroft has to actually think about it; he fires up the appropriate sector to send his consciousness exploring around his hips and legs. Still rock hard. No damp patch. That means...

"No." He answers.

There is a dichotomy though. Mycroft is peaceful. He feels no urgent need to release.

"It's fine." He adds, not really able to articulate how _good,_ how satisfied he feels at the moment, despite the fact that his body is still very much aroused.

Sherlock seems to understand, watching his brother with a hint of humor in his squint.

"You're still in sub-space." He clarifies after a while.

And huh, is that what the cave is then? Self-consciousness wants to intrude, but it can't. Mycroft is basking too much. The blissful peace overwhelms him.

Silence, in his mind.

_Only Sherlock._

"I never knew..." Mycroft states.

Sherlock's smile is affectionate. "Neither did I."

Time floats again. Mycroft would fall asleep, if it weren't for that pesky erection. It is growing more pressing now.

"Was the evening to your satisfaction then?" Sherlock breaks the silence.

"It... did not go as planned." Mycroft answers diplomatically.

"No. Too many unpredictable variables." Sherlock agrees.

"It was better." Mycroft gushes. Sherlock beams proudly.

"There are... we'll need to... talk..." Mycroft's brain-town flickers back online. There were some ugly truths that will need adressing if he and Sherlock's relationship is to survive. The conversations will be difficult, but necessary.

"I know." Sherlock agrees for once.

"For now, how about we take this to the bedroom?" Sherlock stands and stretches.

"I." Mycroft croaks, destabilized. "I thought you didn't..."

Sherlock smiles again.

"I don't particularly care for the baser physical aspect, no. However, tonight was... not entirely horrible. On an intellectual level, I truly enjoyed undoing you. You are tough, brother mine. The challenge was stimulating."

Sherlock walks to Mycroft and kisses him fervently. Mycroft makes a purely embarassing noise of want.

"See?" Sherlock arches an eyebrow. "You are putty in my hands right now."

Sherlock's face grows serious. "You know you can trust me, right? Clearly, you need this."

Mycroft shrugs. He doesn't know anymore.

"Sentiment..." Mycroft whispers. He chokes back a sob

Sherlock stills.

"I'm sorry." Mycroft says. "I'm defective, I guess."

"No." Sherlock contradicts. "You're human, Mycroft."

He starts to walk towards the bedroom. A little half-moon at the bottom of each his cheeks peaks out from beneath his shirt tails.

"I think I would be amenable to doing this for you occasionnally." He calls.

Mycroft's heart skips a beat.

He strips out of his sweaty clothes as fast as he can.

"So long as you don't expect me to be sticking my penis in your rectum!" Sherlock adds. Mycroft stubs his toe on the door-jamb at the idea.

"We will need to establish some rules, you know." There is rustling and Sherlock's voice jolts. Mycroft think he might be yanking covers off the bed.

Mycroft stops just inside the bedroom door. His dick sticks out ridiculously. Sherlock's hair is fluffy and he's back to his enthusiastic experimenting self.

"On the bed." He says, and Mycroft kneels on the edge of the mattress.

"Stay." Sherlock's fingers very briefly wrap around Mycroft's neck. They press too tight for a second, and Mycroft's eyes roll back.

"Breath-play; yes then." Sherlock says.

"Don't move." He repeats.

Mycroft sways. He can barely remain upright, he's so dizzy with anticipation.

Sherlock notices and pushes him down to his back on the bed.

Sherlock hovers, hesitating, before explaining in a vulnerable rush:

"I don't think I want to be naked much. I'm going to put my pants on. And get my scarf. Oh, and my rubber gloves. Surely you brought appropriate lubrication?"

Mycroft swallows thickly.

"Please, Sherlock." He begs. "Make it... as tolerable as you can for you too."

Sherlock smiles.

"Yes. Thank you, Mycroft."

Then Sherlock kisses his brother possessively and Mycroft is already drifting again.

Sherlock stands and watches Mycroft, who is trying very hard not to move his hands. Mycroft's hips roll, denied cock leaking onto his abdomen. Sherlock will need to tie him up quickly; Mycroft clearly can not resist much longer.

"I'm going to fucking take you apart." Sherlock promises darkly. 

Mycroft jerks and his fingers clutch the air helplessly.

Sherlock grins and exits the room.

"Oh and Mycroft?" Sherlock pokes his head back in. Mycroft blearily focuses on his brother's serious expression.

"If you ever drug me again? I'll cut your dick off. And you'll beg me to do it."

Mycroft believes him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. That happened. Sorry, not sorry. 
> 
> Seriously, what did you think?
> 
> Xxx
> 
> FrenchCaresse


End file.
